


Irrevocable

by Mrkgnao



Category: Ultima
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Gen, Love Confessions, Reverse Chronology, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-26
Updated: 2012-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-04 09:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 5,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrkgnao/pseuds/Mrkgnao
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tensions run high as the Imbalance nears, and the Avatar's companions confront the feelings they hold for the savior of worlds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of my first real attempts at fanfiction, and I admit I'm a little embarrassed by it in retrospect, given how weird the implications of companion/Avatar romantic plots are when you consider that everyone involved is a self-insert (hence the archetypal blonde Avatar remaining unnamed and -relatively- undefined). I was intrigued by recent prominence of Bioware's "romance everyone" approach to heroes and party members, and I realized that there's a certain amount of awkward attraction that no doubt occurs when somebody spends a significant amount of their life in the company of a paragon, and I wanted to explore it. I was also playing Serpent Isle at the time I wrote this, and was very taken by how abysmally depressing and desperate the game made one feel - what with the mercenary attitudes of all of the New Sosarians and the impending end of the world.
> 
> The story is written in mixed chronological order. The main narrative (Chapters 1, 3, 5, 7, 9 and 11) are in regular typeface and outline a chain of events beginning with Dupre's death and ending sometime in the interim before Ultima IX. In between them are a series of vignettes (Chapters 2, 4, 6, 8 and 10) moving backwards, beginning with a meeting at Monk Isle immediately before the party heads to the crematorium and ending with sundry confrontations between party members in the hours before they confront Batlin.

The doors were blockaded as best they could manage and the unspoken truth amongst the company was that the goblins would not give them time for excessive sentimentality. Iolo had draped a cloth over Renfry's face, finding regretfully that the gesture served to underscore the greater disorder of the scene. She didn't look back as she ascended the stairs to the furnace. Looking back now would only make it worse.

Iolo's throat hurt as he breathed the stale rotting air. He felt -as he knew everyone must feel- that something ought be said, but the matter of fact footfalls of the doomed woman precluded any such speeches. What was to be said anyway? What could be said? She started the apparatus and let the heat rise to a pitch before the old man could finish out his half born thoughts. Bereft of their caretaker, the gears of the cremator creaked uneasily into action, rising to a loud thrumming purr.

Eyes still fixed ahead, she set her satchel on the ground and undid the clasp from her wolf-hide cloak. It didn't surprise him that when she stopped to fold it. She smoothed her hair as the hot breath of the furnace before her caught it, kneeling as she rummaged through her pack, palming a small bag into her right hand.

"It's a long journey ahead," her voice beat a staccato over the roar of machinery, "Is there anything I've forgotten?"

She spoke as though she was headed for a weekend in the country. The bard fidgeted with the rucksack of serpentine jewelry she'd handed him the night before, reassuring himself that it was where it was five minutes ago. The maps, the jawbone, the Ring of Shal and that curious goblet always full of something that tasted like watered down apple sack... all where he'd put them when she'd given her comprehensive instructions. He found he didn't know what to say again, and glancing at the others he could tell they didn't either. Dupre looked as if he would like to strike someone, his hand covering his face as he leaned against the wall.

Shamino began to open his mouth but stopped short. She turned to face them, but kept her gaze fixed on some immutable point high above where they stood.

"Could somebody please..." She faltered for the first time. "Please help me off with this cuirass. I can't imagine it will do me much good."

Both men that weren't him simultaneously met her halfway down the stair. She paused as she encountered them both, and then looked away, pulling her flaxen hair away from the collar of the armor as she presented her back. Shamino moved toward her and laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Wait."

It was ironic that that was the word to break the tension. Everything came into sudden and violent motion as she pulled away from the ranger in an ungainly jerk. Dupre bolted up toward the platform, the jingling of his hauberk clashing with the sudden cacophony of shouts. Iolo too felt himself propelled forward, the emotions they'd all been choking back finally boiling over in the muddled rage of action.

"Idiot!"

Bits of the younger man's dying speech poured over his brain like water as his fist connected with Shamino's face. By the time he'd processed what had just been said, the forester was on his feet again, looking at him with hollow but finally comprehending eyes.

She sat on the steps to the cremator, head sunk into her arms. He couldn't tell over the horrible grind that sounded from the machine if she was weeping.


	2. Chapter 2

_Wilfred sniffed as he sat down by the well-worn wooden table, cleaning his fingernails with a dagger as the five persons in front of them consulted the old harridan. He didn't know much of what was bloody well going on, except that it probably had something to do with the world going to hell and that everyone involved looked like somebody had just thrown piss in their pottage. He took a bit of hard bread someone had left out and began to attempt to pry a bite loose with his teeth as he watched._

_It was bad news, alright – not that Wilfred could really imagine much worse to have happen at this point. The old couple held each other as the damn withered bitch at the center of things continued to lecture. He wasn't particularly close to the action, but he was pretty sure she was ranting on about all that "balance" nonsense again. Damn but he was getting to be sorry that this lot was the last bastion of civilization._

_He managed to secure a mouthful of stale sourdough for himself by the time they took to drawing straws."This should be something, at least," he thought, 'Maybe the bastards are deciding whose going to massacre the clerics... wouldn't want to leave the island with things all half-arsed, now." He spat a piece of particularly unmasticatable crust onto the floor._

_Even from where he sat it was clear that they were letting the first two off. The blonde she-wolf was holding the stack, and she'd obviously done something to let the old man and his missus know what was what. "Probably don't want the trouble of having some shaky bald-pate handling the big trek back north to get the sacred Water of Milklivery or whatever it was now."_

_He could tell something was up when nobody picked again for a span. Bored out of his pole at whatever they were playing at he began to carve at the table, leaving his command's signature "Ex" shape with the little tail at the end. Ma would cuff him if'it'd been hers._

_But it wasn't hers._

_He thought back to the neat little piles of stone he'd left down by the Bull Tower, his mind wandering back to the old legend of the bull, and how he and Argus had once thought that the big rock out by the south beach must've been it. The old enchanted animal'ld gotten itself stuck out at sea. They were little. Tide beat 'em back the five times they'd tried to get out to it and they'd given up. Made it a week later and realized it was nothing but an old millstone._

_He bit his thumb and cocked his head back. "Damned wolves. Always gotta have something to play at." He could see that there was an unsteady understanding of some sort going on, as though they two men puzzling over their picks were trying at something more than simply not losing. Dupre went for his after a moment and for the life of him, Wilfred couldn't figure out if he'd just won or lost. The girl held out her hand to the last man though. Must've won._

_It was daft, or rather, it was still daft, but he was sure that the one remaining – Shamino, was it? He was the one really mulling it over. He was either craven about losing, or if Wilfred wasn't blind, he was after the short straw._

_Probably the former._


	3. Chapter 3

Shamino didn't blame Iolo, but he'd wished in that moment more than any other in his millenia of wandering that he'd been able to take one step backwards in time -just once- instead of moving inexorably forward. Just to be in a position, for once in his whole long life, to go forward again without considering.

Consideration. He'd been considering for the past year and a half as to whether to settle down in Britain and marry an honest woman. He'd considered how to undo the black jewel with only a handful of new-recovered mages, how to skirt joining with the Fellowship and take a middle road to approaching their suspicions. He'd considered carefully the ethics of gargoyles and of wisps in days when they both were being slaughtered like may lambs, and he'd considered his faltering speech full of mawkish truths for hours that cursed night for which he had finally received a much-deserved black eye, and once, over an age ago he'd considered in young British's castle the best way to unite against an upstart wizard.

He raised his hand to his chest. Maybe he should just learn to speak faster. Fewer dramatic pauses. One step backwards and there'd be no more "Wait." It would all be "WaitI'mafoolandI'msorryandI'mgoingtojumpintoafirefortheenow!" and that would be that. His final speech wouldn't have time to be eloquent.

He grimaced at that thought, mulling over how his regret was another form of consideration. Iolo was already holding her where they both sat unmoving. It was then that grief hit him. The old man was crying like a child.

Somewhere in the belly of the cremator, he could make out the sound of metal grinding against metal. Trying not to think about what he was going to do, he walked silently to its mouth, watching as it belched forth a mass of mail, bone and ash. The urn had gotten tangled awkwardly in the works, its lid having been lost somewhere in the mechanisms that hadn't been prepared for such cargo. Looking around the disarray of the room he managed to locate what he thought were the proper tools to deal with this.

"Go back to the island."

He did his best to have the same deadpan she'd had a moment earlier. He hoped he could make it carry even a tinge of the irrefutable weight that she'd long ago mastered.

"I'll take care of it."


	4. Chapter 4

_The metal clasp caught a ringlet of hair as he tried to close it, so she guided him to loosen it. Her hand on his as she guided it to its intended task. He'd already explained, in stumbling words, where he'd gotten it and about the song that had won it and about the trial and the acquittal and the fact that he'd been a silly old fool and forgotten to write the blasted thing down so he hadn't a clue what anything was except the refrain. She listened to the story, following as intently as possible while she heard his eyes interject, "But you – you are more beautiful than the Lady of Fawn." It wouldn't do to ask him to repeat anything._

_It was such a strange thing to feel again – the pulse of another living being meeting her pulse as their skin touched. She'd not really though much about being dead before, she supposed. Even if memories of that overcast sort of existence were hazy, it struck her that she'd still been somewhere back then – and wherever she was, it brought back memories of Earth when she tried to think of apt metaphors to name the place._

_Like a television, maybe? When the images weren't appearing on its screen and he'd tried to fix it with with the rabbit ears._

_It didn't matter. Her hands wouldn't leave his for a long while. She'd take his every heartbeat and let it pump her back full of whatever it was she thought she'd lacked. She was old enough not to be upset over a death that she'd survived._

_The monks seemed uncomfortable when he suddenly spun her in the air, laughing and animated in the midst of their piddly little world of asceticism. The back of her mind did a poor job of reminding her that the end of the world was at hand._


	5. Chapter 5

If she'd been crying a moment ago, Iolo couldn't tell. Her voice had regained some of its characteristic animation, and it was obvious that she was deeply sad. After so many years of living as an exemplar of people's ideals, however, the barrier between her words and the emotions behind them was often fairly opaque. Gwenno reacted much as he'd expected to the news, with a confused sort of grief that came from expecting to mourn the wrong person.

He asked if she needed anything, posing the question such as to be open to either woman. One didn't answer and the other leaned into him, holding onto his shoulders as though she would fall over without his frail body's support.

It was half an hour before Thoxa came to fetch them, explaining that Shamino had finally appeared at the Serpent Gate. Iolo readied himself for an apology, hoping that when he offered one that it wouldn't be the instigator of further melodrama. The whole world had gotten awfully bleak as of late, and he was, after all, just another player in the overblown passion play which had overtaken them.

What was it to him? She'd been the one hurt that night, and by what? A heartsick boy too young for his centuries of midsummers. Hardly something to come to blows over with the apocalypse nipping at their heels. His head reeled as alcohol-stained memories came back to him, recalling conversations he'd promised to forget.

She sat coolly by the window when he came up the stairs, his eyes staring tiredly ahead, already healed of any indicator of the bard's outburst. He pushed the brassy container onto the table without ceremony, and looked Iolo in the eye. Same drab monotone as he'd given before – coming across almost like a child trying its best to be taken seriously by a room full of adults.

"My apologies, old friend. I didn't mean to make things worse"

The bard sighed, half wanting to knock him again. It wasn't as awkward as it could be, he supposed. Avatars apparently learned to be experts at pretending they're not in the room.

"Nay friend. The blame lies with me."

Gwenno's hand dug into his shoulder as she saw the urn, spurring on his own renewed grief at the realization of how permanently Dupre was gone. He was glad she didn't feel like asking questions. Shamino sat down by the hateful thing and held his head in his hands.

Xenka came, in time, refreshingly unconcerned about anything that grieved them now. The world needed saving, and it didn't keep pace with men's misery.


	6. Chapter 6

_The storm shouldn't have frightened her, because she was a Monitorian, not some fragile Fawnish doxy ready to faint when a man flashed some new steel. She knew, of course, that storms were a bit more a palpable danger now, but she was safe inside – on an isle with no goblins, even._

_Still the roar of the din reminded her of things she'd dreamt of back when she'd been ill. It wouldn't do to dwell on them. "No need to waste your strength fighting phantoms," Da would say. "There's plenty of real monsters to save it for." She thought to herself, though, it might be best -for the sake of keeping courage, of course- to find the bearded monk who'd given her the simples to help her sleep when first she'd recovered. Mother wouldn't see any harm in it, to be sure. Sometimes a bit of ginseng or all-heal keeps a body from being foolish afraid, and there's nothing wrong with that._

_The howls of the storm grew louder and she swore she heard something moan in the voice of the thunderclap. More nightmares trying to come back for her. She steeled herself to ignore them. She wouldn't even take a candle. No need to waste good tallow for ten feet of hallway._

_Getting up from the patchwork nest of blankets that she kept by the kitchen hearth, the girl pulled her shift tight around her, standing straight as if she'd been parading through the list field in full armor. She'd walk to the rows of beds not fifteen paces ahead, and calmly ask if there was any more of that bee mint to be had, apologize for waking him, and that would be that. Nothing more._

_The moon was putting her veil fair on that night, and by the time her marching footfalls met the unexpected obstacle of a dining room stool, she'd begun to regret not taking a taper. While her heart raced a moment as she tried not to fall over onto herself, she assured herself she'd not been afraid. Just surprised._

_The roar that she'd heard beneath that of the storm grew larger in her mind, regardless of her attempts at stoicism. Like the shriek of something in pain. She clenched her teeth as she crept toward the bedroom door, half-realizing that no thunder had accompanied it this time._

_The shouting came from all around her as the hallway exploded into calamity. Screaming before she realized what had beset her, the girl buckled under the weight of a body suddenly pressed against hers. Two wild eyes crossed hers as a rough pair of lips stopped her screams, half kissing, half gnawing her as she fell against the wall._

_It wasn't more than a few heartbeats before they came. Dull shapes in the darkness thrummed as the whole brotherhood descended on her assailant, witchery giving them the strength to pull him off of her. In the light of their magics, she could see the man's face – recognizing only after a few moments the dark-haired warrior who had been brought to her city, his mouth daubed with her blood._

_As his arms were quickly rebound, the knight called a name that was not hers, screaming it over and over, as though his mind had no other goal._


	7. Chapter 7

Shamino stirred the fire.

"I know I'm a fool. I take it he knew too?"

The bard seemed to soften, now that it was evident that nobody had anything to pretend at.

"It's bloody cold and Flindo sells... well... sold cheap canvas."

His face wrinkled into a smile.

"That and thou wert pretty damn theatrical."

Shamino exhaled uneasily, his voice unemotional as he looked into the flames.

"I didn't want this."

Iolo lowered his voice grimly, "We're not at a place I think anyone wants"

"Thou knowst what I meant, old man. I didn't want to have... I have enough on my hands without her sorrows to add to it."

Iolo coughed, stifling a number of biting comments before he spoke again,"Thou and I art both villains in this world. Your self pity doesn't amount to a teardrop in the sea, as far as those left are concerned."

"It may be a blackguard's viewpoint, but I don't give a damn about them."

The aged archer paused a moment, hoping to concoct some lofty words to disagree in the name of virtue, if not for simple spite, but found himself likewise short on empathy. Everything on the Serpent Isle was ugly, and he wished it wasn't. Still, he tried to muster something by way of compassion to interject into the conversation, as tired as he was of this cursed realm and as weary as he was by his friend's self-inflicted suffering.

"She'll... she'll be alright you know."

The ranger remained as silent as the endless snow.

"She's always alright," Iolo added unhelpfully, "She's been through worse than you."

"Has she been through worse than this?" Shamino replied sardonically.

"Has anyone?" Iolo shot back with exasperation.

Sparks belched from the fire as it consumed a stray piece of rot. Both men inadvertently looked back to the tent where she slept as they momentarily turned away from the flames.

"I know you don't think very much of me these days, old man, and telling you I meant to do it won't matter – because I didn't."

"I know," Iolo said blankly. He paused a few moments before continuing.

"I'm as much a bastard as you, Shamino Salle' Dacil, and it's a rotten sick thing to think – but I wish you had."

"I know," the ranger echoed somberly before sighing.

Iolo inhaled and chuckled unhappily, "When did I become such a bitter hypocrite?" His smile was uneasy, but it remained on his face.


	8. Chapter 8

_The sun was maybe an hour away as Dupre slumped away from the encampment, awkwardly bunching around him half the mass of furs that he and Iolo shared in their attempts to keep warm under the thin Moonshadian tent. He half worried in his sleep-deprived stupor that he'd somehow manage to collapse on the road to Spinebreaker, and it wouldn't do to freeze to death in the hours before the latest final confrontation._

_Shamino had really gone and done it this time. Gwenno dead. Cantra insane. Half-rations for two weeks not to mention the grog had run out... a day away from whatever endtimes sorcery Batlin had decided to embark upon... and -oh yes- the bloody end of the world was nigh._

_"And the bastard has to go and confess his love to the bloody Avatar of bloody virtue."_

_The cold awakened his senses enough that he felt self-conscious about his thoughts drifting into words, even if there was nobody to hear them._

_As if to punctuate his self-consciousness, the dull crunch of snow alerted him to something's presence. Comically, the paladin reached for his dagger and swung around, dropping armfuls of wolfskin as he stood to face the approaching entity in his nightshirt._

_Bleary-eyed, Iolo gazed back at him, unfazed by his fellow's absurd posturing. The bard had apparently had the presence of mind to dress, equip and sling a cloak around himself before following Dupre outside camp._

_Flustered that his friend had heard his outburst, the knight gathered up his cocoon of pelts with embarrassment. He looked up at Iolo uneasily as the older man silently handed him a lined bearskin._

_"He was bloody loud about it too," Iolo said with grim humor._

_Dupre relaxed ever so slightly as he pulled the garment around himself. The older man sat unceremoniously in the midst of the snowbank, his eyes facing east to where the sun hadn't yet risen. Uncertain as to what to do at first, Dupre eventually joined him._

_"So what now?" he asked aloud._

_Rummaging through his satchel, Iolo produced two flasks of amber liquid, his face breaking into a subtle grin. The half-clothed paladin's face lit up as he recognized it._

_"Fraiser's Folly! You scoundrel! How long hast thou been hoarding that?"_

_"Wouldn't due to toast our end of days with that Fawnish swill, now would it?" Iolo chuckled as he handed his friend one of the containers. His face grew quickly somber again, however, as he continued to speak._

_"Methought it good to have something to celebrate... reunions. Thou knowst..."_

_Dupre paused as he put the bottle to his lips, unsure if he should say something. Iolo's grief over his wife's death had long been overshadowed in the desperation of their mission, and he was never certain how deeply the old man had been shaken by it. He drank, however, when his companion did._

_Aided by the liquid fire snaking down his gullet, Dupre spoke his thoughts aloud, "You'd think the sorry whoreson had enough women on both sides of the Void to give him his fill."_

_"Cheers to that," Iolo said with acerbic humor, "With luck on his side the world will tear itself to shreds before he has the time to deal with either."_

_Dupre laughed as the alcohol ate away at the edges of his anxiety. The only constellation he could identify in the foreign sky – something that was supposed to be a loom – came into his field of vision as he stretched out against the ground._

_"You can't be that far gone yet..." the bard commented, "You're not going to get all contemplative on me, art thou?"_

_"My dearest Iolo, I do all my best philosophizing within the desmenes of Lord Fraiser's academy."_

_The old man threw back his head to enjoy another draught. "So decipher this riddle, Master Dupre: Why is Shamino's decision to act like a two-silver passion player enough to drive us out to the wastes when we have a perfectly good fire to drink around back there."_

_"Simple deduction, Master FitzOwen – because we might run up against the bastard tonight and have to bloody well share."_

_"A good counterpoint," the bard smiled, "but thou hadst no brew on your person when you wandered out this way."_

_The comment cut through the pleasant haze of the warm liquor and the floating trance of sleeplessness, and Dupre's mind turned as it realized Iolo knew the answer to his own inquiry._

_"If you think I'm jealous of him, you're a greater mooncalf than he," he spat out._

_The old man's eyes wrinkled as a look of tenderness underscored the well-worn lines of his face. "Did I say that?"_

_The knight swallowed at least a gil and a half in one go before continuing. "Is this all to ply my own heartsore confession out, old man? And here I thought thou wert being kind."_

_"What's he said that's not on any man's mind? If ever there were a wench that truly deserved her pedestal..."_

_"Rogue!" Dupre said in mock indignation, albeit genuinely shocked at Iolo's bluntness, "Had I anything more formidable than this cheese knife, I'd make you eat such words!"_

_"Ah, but this is a night for philosophy – is it not?"_

_"Fine. I'd have her if she were a woman to be had – but she isn't, so I don't go making an ass of myself."_

_Iolo snorted._

_"...an ass of myself **to her.** "_

_Injecting a tone of solemnity into his speech, the bard joined his friend in looking skyward. "You're right you know, she's not a woman to be had, but that's the point, is it not?"_

_"A pox upon this sophistry! Master Fraiser alone knows my heart's sorrow." He paused, musing on his half-joking admissions as it sunk in that Iolo knew his desire. His voice lowered, and lost its bombast as he bang to speak plainly. "I love her, if that's what you want, but..."_

_"How can't you, she's... she's more than flesh and bone. She's... like a star hanging in the Void if it came down and decided to wander the earth."_

_"Damnable poet. She's an Avatar, isn't that what thou'rt saying?" Dupre was startled by Iolo's lyrical description, but didn't want to parse out whatever it was the old man was getting at._

_"She's a woman as well." The bard responded dryly._

_"I'll drink to that."_

_His heart sank and rose as he muddled through whatever it was his friend wished to imply. Somebody at long last knew now, and in the absurdity of the night, he found he didn't care._


	9. Chapter 9

The cold winds of Sunrise Isle picked up, as if to punctuate her absence, the shattered statue offering no clues as to where it's new-mantled Hierophant had gone. Her backpack had fallen to the pristine tiles of the sanctum, its contents scattered amidst the rubble.

Gwenno was the first to approach, looking astutely for clues as to wherever the ill-starred heroine had been taken. Her shoulders drooped slightly in relief as she recognized the curve of the serpent's jawbone within its black silk bag.

On hands and knees her fingers ran themselves through the chalky black stone that had once imprisoned the Great Serpent of Balance, looking for whatever she could recover. The others followed her lead.

After a few minutes work, she noticed Shamino awkwardly offering her something small and made of brightly colored synthetic fabric. It took her an instant to recognize it once it was in her hands and a few minutes to realize that the Sosarian probably didn't know what a wallet was and was liable to be baffled by constructs such as velcro.

Opening the battered Terran relic she sighed and looked at its contents without moving for several moments. Poignancy was unhelpful, but she felt herself tearing up nevertheless.


	10. Chapter 10

_**"I don't know how to say it, and I know thou'lt think poorly of it... but if we are all perhaps to die..."** _

_**"I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."** _

_**"I know I'm a horrible man. I know she dost deserve better."** _

_**"Please. Say something."** _

_**"Tell me thou hatest me. Tell me that I'm a fool. Tell me anything."** _

_A steady beat of words thrummed in his brain as he sat alone, his hands melting marks into the snow. He wished he could swallow all of them – take them back and make them unsaid. He had known -should have known- better than this._

_He cursed himself for still looking back over the litany of idiocy he'd just recited, and cursed himself still further for even now trying to sound out whether or not he might still have reason to hope. Had he really deluded himself that much?_

_But still... the pause in her response... the phrasing of her rational and eloquent refusal, and those words **"I can't..."** left to trail off to unknown ends..._

_"No!"_

_Beating one fist against his chest in punctuation, he tried to jolt himself from his aimless obsessing. Somewhere, almost to his relief, he felt the jagged edge of something -something as cold as cowardice- sting the muscles of his heart._


	11. Chapter 11

The move to Britain had left him a bit ragged, although with orcish bands re-emerging in the valley had made it an easy decision. As much as he might have dim hopes that the Avatar of legend would someday return and lead him off to right wrongs and fight daemons, Iolo was gradually beginning to admit that he had grown older than his wanderlust.

Gwenno, who'd recently left on an errand to study with the also newly relocated Brethren of the Rose , had tasked him with finding homes for the remaining two crates unpacked possessions. Smiling at the minute quest before him, he recognized bemusedly that the undertaking coincided with the day his back had finally ceased to ache from carting the very crates in question out of Yew.

Rifling through bundles of bolt shafts and tunics he hadn't worn in half a decade, the old archer found a small and dusty artifact, its neon nylon surface distinctly out of place amidst the medieval articles surrounding it.

Iolo had not seen it before, but knew what it was and upon opening it whom it belonged to. He sighed, his shoulders sinking, as he saw the photograph displayed in its inner pocket. A familiar face, framed by blonde hair, smiled up at him against the backdrop of a ferris-wheel, which was lit up like a birthday cake against the night sky.

Scooped up in her arms was a grinning youth whom the bard had never seen nor heard word of before, no doubt ignorant of precisely who it was who held him.


End file.
